Which was what she was doing here now.
Parker waited for more.
“About four weeks ago, at the beginning of the school year, I was contacted by my handler.”
“Handler.”
“Yes, that’s what we call them. I was told to set up a place for a young woman. A teacher. A sort of safe house like the others.”
“This place?”
“Yes.”
Teacher. Evelyn’s story was hard to believe but that fit.
Becker had returned with the field kit as she’d asked. Miranda signaled to him to open it and took out the photo of June May with her students.
She crossed to the sofa and held it out. “Is this the teacher?”
Evelyn looked at it and nodded sadly. “Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
The regal woman looked up at her with sad gray eyes. “June May.”
She was telling the truth, all right. “We did a run on her this morning. This place isn’t her address.”
Evelyn leaned her head on the heel of her hand with a sigh. “No. She resided somewhere else. She was only supposed to use this house if she was ordered to.”
“By the FBI?”
“By whatever agent she reported to.” Evelyn held up a hand again as if trying to slow things down. “I wasn’t told everything. They really do work on a need to know basis.”
“Okay,” Miranda said, trying to be open-minded.
“But I’ll tell you what I do know. You’ve apparently learned a good deal already. June was to keep watch on one of the children at the school where she worked. Last week there was word of possible trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” Parker asked.
“Something about one of the children. I assumed it was some sort of kidnapping ring, but no one told me that. As I understand it, if things got worse June would be sent a message telling her to take the child and contact me. It got worse and she contacted me. I brought her here. She was to stay here with the child until further notice.”
“When did she get that message?” Parker asked.
“Last Monday during school hours. She made excuses for both of them and left. She met me with the child at a nearby convenience store and I took them here.”
That explained the rotting chicken breast in the sink of June May’s apartment. She’d never returned home to cook it. But where was the kid? Not here. And June May wasn’t either. Her body was up in Kennesaw, or rather wherever Simon Sloan had taken it.
The plan had gotten botched somehow. Badly.
Parker’s patience was growing thin. “None of that explains why you’re here now or why your tenant was found dead this morning thirty miles away.”
Evelyn closed her eyes as if trying to wish it all away. Then she rose and began to pace in front of the fireplace.
“Thursday afternoon I got an emergency signal from June May’s phone. I couldn’t get a location on it, but I assumed she was here, so I came over right away. The house was empty. I didn’t know what to do, so I went home and tried to contact my handler. I couldn’t get through to him. Communication is usually only one-way. I decided to wait for a response. That’s what they told us in training. To wait.”
“You took training?”
“Two years ago. I had a refresher at Quantico last spring.”
Parker looked even more stunned at that news.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I waited and waited. It got to be over twenty-four hours and I knew that couldn’t be good. I tried again to contact my handler. No answer.” She took a deep breath. “And then this morning I got a signal from June’s phone. She was somewhere in Kennesaw, near the railroad tracks. That’s when I called you.”
Miranda sucked in a breath. “What?”
Evelyn had made the weird call with the mechanical voice?
Parker shot to his feet on that one. “That was you?”
Evelyn nodded. “I used a voice distortion app they gave me.”
Recalling the eerie sound of that call, Miranda suddenly felt like she was in a horror movie—the kind where you think you know what’s going on, but it’s really an altered reality.
She dug her fingers into her scalp, trying to put the pieces of this mixed-up puzzle together. “The message we got said there was a death on the tracks. How did you know about that?”
“I have another app that scans police calls. I heard someone calling in the scene. The description sounded like it was June, but I couldn’t be sure. This afternoon someone finally contacted me. He refused to answer questions. He told me to empty the house and tell no one about what happened. I shouldn’t have called you this morning, but when I heard about the body in Kennesaw I panicked. I had to know if it was June. I shouldn’t have involved you.” She waved a hand at Becker. “And now you have your people involved, too. I’m so sorry, Russell.”
A little late for that.
Miranda got the other photo out of the field kit. The one with Sloan. “Who is this man?”
Evelyn stared down at the picture. “I don’t know. That’s June beside him, but I don’t know the man.”
“It’s not your handler?”
“I’ve never met my handler.”
Jeez. She tapped the photo. “This guy showed up at the tracks in Kennesaw this morning. He kicked us and the local police out and took over. He said his name is Simon Sloan. He said he works for the GBI.”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
Parker ran a hand over his face. For several long moments Miranda watched him trying to process everything Evelyn had said. She could see he was beyond frustration. And very concerned for his sister.
He moved to her side and gently touched her arm. “Evelyn, you have a thriving career. Why in the world did you agree to work for the FBI?”
She straightened her back, gave him a not-quite condescending look that was almost a plea. “I’m getting old, Russell. I’m almost fifty. I want to do something meaningful with my life. To help others. You of all people should understand that.”
Parker didn’t know how to reply to that.
“Very well,” he said at last. “June May is obviously not the woman’s real name.”
“It’s her alias.”
“Who is she really?”
“I don’t know,” Evelyn said softly.
“Why did someone kill her?” Miranda wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” Evelyn repeated, her voice breaking a bit. “They must have been after the boy.”
“The child she brought here?”
“Yes. You didn’t find him, did you?”
“No,” Miranda said. “The house is empty.”
Evelyn pressed a hand to her face. “He’s disappeared. I don’t know where he is.”
Parker thought a moment. “Do you know who he is?”
Evelyn nodded. “They didn’t tell me his name but I recognized him. Dylan Ward Hughes. Dylan Cooper Ward Hughes.”
Parker turned to her in shock. “As in Senator Perry Ward Hughes?”
Again Evelyn nodded. “It’s his son. His youngest. He’s only eight years old.”
“Dear Lord.”
Miranda had a sinking feeling in her gut. “You know the family?”
Parker nodded. “Not well, but I went to school with Perry at Westminster.”
“Now it makes sense.” Wesson’s voice rang out from behind the dining room divider.
She and Holloway stepped out from where they must have been eavesdropping.
Though Miranda would have done the same thing, since she was supposed to be the boss, she gave them both a scowl. “What makes sense?”
Holloway returned her scowl with a dirty look, then turned to Parker. “We found something in here, sir. Come take a look.” He pointed to Becker. “And bring the field kit.”
Chapter Twelve
They followed the two detectives through a bright, roomy kitchen with clean white countertops and happy yellow paper on its walls. Off its side was a door to a laundry room.
Miranda peeked inside. There was a washer and dryer, shelving lined with more happy paper and stacked with detergents and fabric softeners. A pile of neatly folded towels sat on the washer, an empty basket on the floor. On the wall near the dryer was a high window. It had white trim and no curtains.
Someone had left it wide open.
A breeze wafted in, fluttering a dryer sheet.
“And look there.” Wesson pointed to the top of the dryer.
On the edge of the otherwise clean white surface was a set of dark smudges. Scuff marks. With partial shoe prints. Two sort of half moon shapes. One looked about the size of a kid’s sneaker. The other was wider and longer, as big as a man’s running shoe. A large man.
“Looks like the kid tried to escape out that window,” Miranda said.
Becker squeezed inside to get a better look. “And didn’t make it.”
Holloway shook his head. “Somebody nabbed him.”
“And went out the window with him from the looks of it,” Wesson said. “Or there would be more signs of a struggle in here.”
Good point. That explained the unlocked front door. The poor kid must have been terrified.
Miranda could feel the outrage growing in the group.
“We need to get those prints,” Holloway growled.
Miranda started for the kit then remembered she was in charge. She batted her hand in the air. “Yeah, you guys get on that.”
Realizing the implications of the scene Evelyn let out a sound like a wounded animal and left the room with her hand over her mouth.
Parker followed her into the living room to offer comfort.
Miranda turned away and wandered into the kitchen, feeling suddenly helpless. She reached for a counter top to steady herself. Her mind was spinning, reeling, her gut churning. A child kidnapped? A senator’s son? His teacher, his protector murdered? The FBI involved?
The poor kid. The poor family. She knew how it felt to lose a child. To have your own flesh and blood torn away right out from under you. She knew the terror, the fear, the unbearable sense loss. The waiting. The hoping. The endless grief.
She had almost nothing to go on. So far the evidence led nowhere. But she vowed within herself she would find this boy and get him back to his family no matter what it took.
And to do that, she had to think.
How did a secret FBI operation—if that was really what it was—go so wrong?
She began to rifle through the cabinets. Not much in there. She opened the refrigerator door. A half empty carton of milk, two eggs, a few slices of cheese. She looked in the freezer. Ice cubes and a half-eaten carton of vanilla ice cream.
She looked in the cabinets near the fridge. A nearly empty box of cereal. But beside it sat two full unopened jars of peanut butter. Like the one on the dining table. She opened a drawer and found an EpiPen.
Evelyn returned to the kitchen with Parker behind her.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
She opened the cabinet and showed them the peanut butter. “There’s another full jar on the dining room table. And I found this.” She held up the EpiPen. “Looks like the kid was allergic to peanuts.”
“Nobody told me that,” Evelyn said with a shake in her voice. “I stocked them with enough food to last a few days. I was going to bring more today.”
“Looks like they ran out except for the peanut butter.”
Evelyn closed her eyes and looked like she might faint. Parker put an arm around her and held her close. “It’s all right, Evy. It’s not your fault.”
“Oh, yes it is, Russell. It’s all my fault.”
Miranda’s heart went out to the woman. She reached out and put a hand on her arm. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we’re going to find Dylan Hughes. I promise you we’ll find him and get him back to his parents.”
“Oh, Miranda,” she said tears filling her gray eyes. “I hope you do.”
Chapter Thirteen
It took about an hour for the team to finish in the laundry room. Not only did they get a nice set of photos and impressions of the shoe prints, they dusted the dryer and the window frame and found several finger prints as well.
These guys were good and suddenly Miranda felt lucky to have them.
As she was heading out down the walkway to the cars, Parker touched her arm. “It’s after one-thirty.”
She dug out her phone to confirm the time. Eight hours since they got Evelyn’s call that morning. “You’re right. We need to get those prints processed ASAP.”
“I was thinking the team might need a lunch break.”
“Oh, right.” The idea of lunch hadn’t crossed her mind. Some boss she was.
She thought about it. She didn’t need everybody and it was the weekend. She told Wesson and Holloway they could go home but to stick by the phone. She told Becker to get lunch when he got back to the office and to take Fry with him—then to get busy on the prints.
She slid into the passenger seat of Parker’s Mazda and watched him wait on the walkway for Evelyn to close up the house with one of those real estate locks. He followed her out to her car and had a heart-to-heart before sending her off.
Miranda could imagine what he was saying. Be careful. Call if there’s any sign of danger. Call when you get home. Parker was chivalrously protective of all those he loved. She knew he’d be worried about his sister until this thing was over. And maybe beyond.
When he slipped into the car, the lines on his handsome face seemed deeper.
“She’ll be okay,” Miranda reassured him. “She’s a strong lady. She’s your sister, after all. She’s a Parker. Plus she’s had training at Quantico.”
Parker laughed wryly and pressed his hands to his eyes. “If anyone had told me my sister would be involved with the FBI—”
“I know. It’s nuts.”
He turned to smile at her tenderly, reached out to touch her hair. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course, I do.”
That deepened the smile. “Where would you like to eat?”
Oh, yeah. The lunch thing. She let out a sigh. “I really don’t feel like eating.”
Now Parker turned his protective scowl on her. “You haven’t had anything today and you’ve already put in over eight hours.”
She brushed him off with a shake of her head. “Right now what I really want is some time in the gym.”
The Parker Agency had a huge training gym, fully stocked with the latest equipment. Olympic weights, pull up bars, kettlebells, an assortment of various sized punching bags. She hadn’t been there in weeks, but Miranda’s personal favorite had always been the red cardio strike bag.
She’d like to wear it out right now.
“Very well,” Parker said calmly. “I’ll drop you off.”
Despite his protective streak Parker knew her well. Knew what she needed. Some time to herself to process everything they’d learned. To work through the personal emotions that were tangled up in this case. And he probably had something up his sleeve food-wise.
“Are you going to contact your senator friend?” she asked as he dropped her off at the Imperial Building.
“It’s first on my list.”
She nodded and went inside.
As she made her way up the elevator to the fourteenth floor her mind was flooded with the vision of that poor woman lying headless on the tracks. Her mangled body. Her dark hair matted with blood. The helpless look in her brown eyes. June May. She’d been a school teacher. No, she’d been an undercover FBI agent posing as a teacher. Her name was something else. Who knew who she really was?
But she’d given her life to protect a senator’s son. From kidnappers, it seemed. From what Evelyn had said, the boy had been missing for two days. That didn’t bode well.
Two days. Why hadn’t they heard anything about it on the news? Why wasn’t there an amber alert?
This had to be about money
. The kid was a senator’s son. Someone in Parker’s social circle. Someone with bucks. Maybe the kidnappers had already contacted the senator and demanded a ransom. Maybe he was getting it together. Once it was paid, the boy would be returned.
Unless they decided to kill him. Or he was already dead.
She hoped Parker could get in touch with his old school chum. There was no time to waste. But they had no real leads. Nothing specific to chase down yet. All they could do was go through the information they had slowly and methodically. She wished she had Parker’s famous patience.
And who was the mysterious man named Simon Sloan? Was he posing as a GBI agent? Miranda was more convinced than ever he was a phony.
If those prints from the blue house turned out to be his…
She pushed through the heavy metal doors and looked around. Seemed like ages since she’d been here.
Clean and open, the Parker Agency gym always smelled fresh, even with a gaggle of trainees thundering around its perimeter the way she used to with Becker and Holloway and Wesson, under the iron fist of Detective Tan. Good times.
She eyed the weights, the punching bags, the stacks of mats in the latest gym designer colors. Then something caught her eye in the mirror.
She turned to the ring in the far corner and saw the last person she expected here.
Gen, Parker’s daughter.
Dressed in a martial arts gi she stood in a horse stance. With a long stride she moved forward, jabbing her hands into the air. Punch, punch, punch. Overhead block, inward block, turn. Outward block, downward block, turn.
She was doing a basic Karate kata, a beginner level practice form. After all, her father was a fourth degree black belt.
Gen was tall like her father, with a thin athletic body. As long as Miranda had known her, she’d worn her nearly white blonde hair in a short almost military style. She’d once joked with Becker that Gen reminded her of a Q-tip.
Parker had made Gen manager over new recruits several years ago, as soon as she’d earned her MBA. Over the past year and a half she’d become office manager for the entire Agency. From the moment she’d laid eyes on Miranda, she’d disliked her. She distrusted, and sometimes downright hated her. As a trainee, she would have made her life hell if it hadn’t been for Parker.
The Boy Page 6
